Standing Alone, Drink in Hand
by UntestableHamlet2015
Summary: Imagine everything in your life just ... gone. Your best friend dead on the floor in front of you, his last words having asked you to tell his story. Could you do it? Would you need some help getting past the emotional obstacles? Modern-day Horatio seeks answers, reassurance, closure, whatever you want to call it. These are his journals. Horatio's story.
1. Prologue

_A/N: This is a project for my tenth grade English class, Honors Humanities, affectionately abbreviated to HoHum. My current plan is to update this every weekend, depending on how things go. Horatio is my favorite character in both the original play and the many movie adaptations of Hamlet. I hope readers can find some inspiration for their own school projects in this, or at least some reasonable enjoyment. Comments and criticism are welcome and appreciated. All actual credit for the characters does, of course, go to Shakespeare. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Standing Alone, Drink in Hand**

**-Prologue-**

"So," the cushions squeaked against one another as she shifted in her seat, reaching for a clipboard on her desk. Her face cracked into a painfully fake smile while she avoided eye contact.

"Yes?" her client replied, studying his knuckles intently.

"What are your thoughts?" she inquired, tilting her head as if stretching her neck.

"About what? R- right now?"

"Yes. Your thoughts right now."

"Why? You going to scribble them down and tell … me I'm m- mad?"

"Is that what you want to hear?"

"No, not r- really."

"You've developed a stammer since we last met."

"No, it's just gotten worse."

Scratch, scratch, scratch went the pen. "This c-couch is far too … sunken. Old. Worn- worn down."

"Yes, I suppose you're right about that. Why don't you tell me a little bit about your week?"

"There's not mm- much to tell, h-honestly."

She scratched her face with the end of her pen, eyebrows furrowed, and questioned him further despite the man's obvious discomfort. "But have you tried any of my suggestions? The exercises?"

"The breathing? It's ri- ridiculous. Doesn't do m…me one bit of good. Still waking up with chillingly cold sweat dripping down my- my face, hearing his godawful coughs. Seeing that bloody… sword. There is no re- relaxing."

"Hmm, yes, alright," she muttered under her breath. The man sitting on the old, too worn down couch sighed and dropped his head heavily into his hands. The dark hair on top of his head was wiry, greasy with weeks of stress, and it poked at the scabs covering his knuckles.

"Will you tell me again about the dream?"

"We've alr- ready been over this."

"Well, tell me again."

His jaw clenched, and he ran an rough fingernail down the bridge of his nose with frustration. "Every night. Every bloody night I-… It's the bodies. Their bodies. Except in the dream they can- they can speak. And they speak to me. They ask why I didn't stop it all b…before it was too late. Why didn't I pr- provide the logic? He trusted me! He did! And I let him down, all- all over again, ever… every night. He trusted me to-" he cut his words off quickly, all at once afraid of his own thoughts.

"Trusted you to what?"

"I'm not even su- sure anymore. But it's my fault. They all tell me. Every night."

"Who trusted you? Who relied on you so heavily that you think their blood is on your hands?" suddenly she was curious, showing an interest in his words rather than her ballpoint and clipboard.

"Hamlet," he replied despondently, his dark, wise-beyond-his-years eyes staring into a patch of space some three feet in front of him. "Gertrude. Laer- Laertes. Probably Claudius, too."

"How?"

"How what?"

"How on earth did you manage to kill all those people and get away with it? What's your secret?"

"What? No, you don't under- understand. I didn't actually-"

"Aha!" she cut him off. "You didn't actually kill them. You've admitted it to yourself. So why place all the blame on your shoulders?"

"They relied on me!" he bellowed. She was taken aback by his sudden aggression. "'Let's ask Horatio,' they said, 'He has answers,' they said, 'He'll never lead us astray,' they said! I was the logical one! I was the one who proved reason! It was my job to keep situations under control, damn it!" He sank back down, not having realized that he stood up at all, and rubbed the week's worth of stubble that shadowed his jaw. Horatio glared at a fake fern quietly gathering dust in the corner, and refused to meet his therapist's eyes.

The room was suddenly stiflingly silent, the pen's scribbling echoing in Horatio's ears. The writer 'hmmmed' to herself. Horatio waited for her to say something, but he heard nothing. Growing impatient, he turned his glare on her and had to struggle to keep a growl out of his next word. "What?"

"You didn't stutter once. Your speech impediment vanishes when you're angry."

"Oh. Mm- maybe that's- Oh, for fu-"

"-Watch yourself, Horatio."

"R- right. Sorry."

"I'd like to go back to what you said a second ago. They relied on you to keep situations under control? Tell me about that."

He put his mask back on, face going slack and eyes becoming almost bored. "People take up different r…roles in a group."

"Can you give me an example other than yourself?"

He threw his head back with a kind of a snort, exasperated. "This is stupid. Don't you have any friends?"

She looked offended, a dark flush creeping its way into her face. She pushed her hair behind her ear, and her pen rolled onto the floor. "Well, yes, of course I have friends. What that has to do with anything, I don't-"

"Wr- wretched is the one without company," he sneered.

"Or perhaps a bit introverted, Horatio. But we are not talking about me, we're talking about you." Her clipped Yorkshire dialect cut through his thoughts, taking his drifting gaze away from the fake fern and back to her.

"Miss Robinson, are you quite alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Now, Horatio, tell me some more about the dream. Everyone was relying on you. Right. But you said that the dream's been invading your thoughts more frequently during the day as well, correct?"

"Like flashbacks."

"Flashbacks? Okay, that's good." She scribbled accordingly. "Are they in small increments that take you by surprise, or something that wandering thoughts frequently come back to?"

"Like war flashbacks. In the mm- movies."

"Alright, alright. Can you tell me a bit about the scenes?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, okay," she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Short and to the point." She glanced down at her watch, and struggled to hold back a smile. This client was rather difficult, and her last of the day.

Horatio noticed her glance, and smiled ruefully. "Time's up?"

"That's not a concern of yours, Horatio."

"Goody."

"Mmm, yes," she muttered under her breath. She stared down at her notes, eyes scrolling across the page tiredly. Suddenly, her eyes brightened and she sat up. "Horatio?"

"What?"

"Have you been looking for anything to take your mind off of these flashbacks and dreams? A lot of people find that things such as writing, or running, music, reading, things like that, can really help in a situation similar to yours."

"I find it hilarious that you should me- mention that because I actually have."

"You have? Oh, good. Have you found anything in particular to be helpful?"

"Drink," he said with a caustic smile.

She sighed dejectedly, berating herself for it, but deciding to address his answer in a later meeting. "Alright, let's move on. Can you tell me a bit about Hamlet? Not from your dream, but the friend you had in him."

"If only he could see me now," he muttered. "Used to say I was his- um- his rock." Horatio noticed her distress and thought that he might try to be a little more cooperative. "He was- we were the best of friends. We met at Uni. We were roo- roommates. We only had a few classes with one another at first; he studied political sciences and I social. He started studying psychology wi- with me in our second year, though. I think he rath- rather enjoyed it. We work- worked well together. He d… drastically improved my social exploits and I his academic," Horatio grinned for the first time in a long time with the memory of some long-forgotten parties. "We were so close, in fact, that- in fact, that on more than one occasion, we were mistaken for a couple," he added with a wistful smile and a breathy laugh.

"And were you two, you know, _ever_ romantically involved?"

Horatio returned from the land of nostalgia with a start, saying, "Oh, God, no. No. He had, um, he had _Ophelia_."

"What an unusual name. Have you spoken to her since your loss? I'm sure some sympathy and support could easily be shared between you."

"She was a part of the loss. D- drowned," he said tersely, jaw clenched.

"Oh." Ms. Robinson sank further back into her chair. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was pl- plenty mad by then. Lost her dad and all."

"She sounds like quite the tortured soul," her brow furrowed as she scribbled this time.

Horatio thought for a long, quiet moment and she waited, much more patiently now, for him to speak. "Am I?"

"Are you… what?"

"A tor- tortured soul. Am I mad?"

This question rather surprised her. "Are _you _mad?"

"Yes. I. Am I mm…mad?"

"Well, Horatio, I don't know. You tell me."

"I think… I think I may be." His eyes bore holes into the faded and fraying carpet.

"And does that scare you?"

"Like hell," he whispered.

"Can you describe it to me? How it feels?"

"Bloody-!" he sighed dejectedly and ran his hand through his hair quickly, nervously. "Yeah. Yes, I- I suppose. It's like- it's as if- I feel like I want to… to go home. As a small child would."

"And is that a bad thing?"

He turned his glare from the carpet and onto her. He took a long time to answer, as if rehearsing his words a few times. "There isn't any home to go to." His voice cracked violently, and Miss Robinson flinched under the pressure of his unwavering scowl.

Desperately searching for something to tear her eyes away from his, she glanced down at her watch for a few far-too-long moments. Horatio snorted.

Miss Robinson sighed and began the process of standing up and putting her things away. "Horatio, I think you've done really well today. You made some good breakthroughs. And I have some suggestions."

"Great. Fabu- fabulous. For what?" he asked curtly, angrily.

For the first time that day, she stuttered as well. "T- to- to help with your visions. I'd like to see how you'd feel trying to write about what happened to you. I'd like to see if that would change anything."

"That sounds terri- terrifying, honestly."

"I know. But I'd really like you to try. Start a journal. Please. Bring it with you to our appointments, but write as if no one will read it."

"I can cert- certainly try. I guess. As if no one will r- read it, you said?"

"As if no one will read it," she repeated. Horatio ground his teeth, thinking on it before nodding once.

And with that, Miss Robinson very nearly pushed him out of the door.


	2. January 19th

All real credit for anything that's not mine in this story goes to the admirable Shakespeare.

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**Standing Alone, Drink in Hand**

**-Chapter 1-**

January 19th

I suppose I've given my word. Well, not really. I could just as easily tell her that I tried and failed. I could be difficult if I wanted to be. That would somehow feel cowardly, though.

It's January now, the middle of the month. It's cold, but not pleasantly so. It doesn't actually snow so much as rain, and any snow that does manage to cling to the rotten ground is muddy with boot treads and tire ruts. One cannot walk across the lawn without falling knee-high into a half frozen puddle.

This kind of miserable weather was present when Hamlet decided to go mad. When he threw everyone to our wits' ends. It is my strong belief that he did indeed toss aside all of his sense in that era of time, if only for a moment or two here and there. I used to often wonder why I didn't stop him in his thoughts right then and there. Why we couldn't have-

Well, those are thoughts of the past now, aren't they?

I woke this morning in a cold sweat. A drench of fear, and guilt I suppose, and remembrance. It was one of those same dreams yet again. Hamlet stares at me from the floor, mouth dribbling bright red, and Ophelia walks in, dragging pools of once beautiful fabric and churned up river water, screaming at me. Her skin is pale, blue-green, and bloated. Reeds poke through her skin haphazardly, long grasses stuck to her face. Her eyes are bloodshot and bulge at me from across the room. She screams, and screams, and screams at me until I am on the floor, hands pressed to my ears, begging it to stop. And then it does stop. My self in dream opens my eyes to understand why it has stopped. I see my hands wrapped far too tightly around her neck, cutting off her shrieks. Her eyes still bulge, but are rolled back into her skull now. My hands drip with both blood and mud.

And then I wake. This particular dream comes to me maybe once a week. Occasionally the roles are opposite, and Ophelia lies on the floor while Hamlet, my dear friend Hamlet, screams at me and shouts nonsense until both of us have hands clenched around the other's neck. Never really makes for a "good morning," despite how often my neighbors may shout it at me.

Recently I've found myself doing the strangest thing. I never mean to, yet the feeling always creeps up on me somehow. I'll be somewhere, say, at the grocery store or in traffic, - someplace entirely mundane – and I'll find myself… Well, hearing him. I've heard Hamlet's voice calling out to me, maybe asking for help with schoolwork or setting me up with Ophelia's friend. Simple memories, such as those. For a split second in time, what is obviously nothing more than a figment of my imagination is comforting in my dull yet somehow terrifying life. I am happy to hear some words in a more fitting tone from his mouth than the ones that I hear nightly.

I have to admit that there's a fraction of a moment in my dreams that I enjoy. My dream self doesn't stutter, or stammer, or hesitate before speaking. My waking self does, and is angry when he does it, too. So, usually, he comes to the conclusion that it's best not to speak at all. To avoid the risk of humiliation.

I can only speak properly when I'm angry. For a rather crude example, I find that I can speak with great precision whilst shouting foul words at drag racing pickup trucks in the parking lot of Target. This is not something that I am proud of, I must admit. But the screech of their tires was too, too much for this brain that has been emptied by insomnia.

I am no longer proud of my voice in general. No, this voice that Hamlet asked the impossible of has been scratched. It's a broken stereo. I only nod and point anymore, hoping that people will have pity on the poor mute man who is, in fact, not at all mute, and ask him no more questions. I notice that words beginning with the letters 'r' and 'm' take the longest to crawl from my lips. I have been meaning to look up the phonetic reasoning behind that.

Well, here's to you, Miz Robinson. I have written. I feel no better. Looking back, perhaps my writing was a bit dark. Then again, my thoughts themselves are gloomy. I suppose I'll see you next Thursday. I do hope my writing's not too worrying for you.


	3. February 5th

**Standing Alone, Drink in Hand**

**-Chapter 2-**

February 5th

Here I am again. I have met with Ms. Robinson twice since I wrote last month. Each time she has implored me to continue this godforsaken journal, and each time I've promised her that I would. As any reader could gather from this information, I have continued to put it off. Yet I cannot bring myself to feel poorly over these broken promises. Somehow, my bumbling words no longer seem to hold much value.

Speaking of our dear Ms. Robinson… Well, I know that she'll be reading this at some point or another, but she told me to write as if no one would read, so, here goes. One could say that I have indeed formulated an opinion of her now. I don't like her. She's a real- well, I ought to refrain from putting that in writing. Her manner is cold, and she constantly seems frustrated with me, which certainly doesn't help my current feeling of guilt.

Enough of that, though. I can practically hear Hamlet scoffing at me, telling me that a Horatio who has lost his chivalry is a poor one indeed.

Speaking of whom, I've had a new dream, deviating from the usual. It, however, has to do with his father, Hamlet Sr. Or rather, his ghost. I heard it that night, you know. The night that it spoke to Hamlet. The others and I were a ways off, but its voice- reverberating through our chests like a timpani- it was hard to ignore.

I had only met Hamlet Sr. once in his life. I think he was a kind man; young Hamlet often spoke of him admirably.

I heard the ghost's tones, and I heard my friend's as well. I had never heard Hamlet sound so scared. In fact, that is perhaps when he came closest to genuinely losing his mind. Before he was trying to put on a show of it.

Hamlet Jr. - No, no, I don't like the sound of that at all. He was not a junior. Hamlet was a man strong and far too clever for his own good. No, not "Hamlet Jr." Young Hamlet's voice ("young Hamlet" is only slightly better) cracked painfully through the night as he neared the end of what must have been a trying conversation. Discussion. Lecture. Whatever you may call it. He sounded hurt, and he came running back through the forest, towards us or his otherworldly father I know not. His face was wet by then. Eyes suddenly bloodshot and cheeks flushed, he certainly was a sight that night. He gripped our arms tightly, ripping us from the spots where our feet had been cemented and jaws frozen open only moments ago. He dragged us back to where we had started that night's journey and made us swear on our sorry lives not to tell a soul what we had heard. We swore wholeheartedly, honestly terrified, and lightning split the sky. I remember that I wished I could have done something for him, help him to see rationally, to regain his wits. I reached towards him, for what I don't honestly know, but he darted off again without notice of my movement and shouted at us to follow once again.

But that was the actual night, so long ago. No, I was writing of the dream. The dream. Yes. It was essentially … from Hamlet's point of view that night. Except it wasn't just his point of view. No, I was Hamlet in that dream. We had switched places, accounting for one another, like we used to do during roll call in classes. Looking behind me in the dream, I saw he was standing where I stood in actuality. The ghost spoke to me, and I received his words as if in a haze. There was the strange sensation of knowing that I ought to have been terrified, but was not. Why should I have been? I already knew the ghost's speech. It's become rote memory now. It began playing through my head ever since those angels sang him to his final rest.

But yes, the dream. I suppose that it was actually a kind respite from my usual torrent of nightmares. There was no gore. There were no reanimated corpses of lost friends. There was no actual death. Yet I still woke in my usual sheen of cold sweat. Perhaps out of mere habit at this point.

That moment, that snapshot in time is really when the whole ordeal began. If Hamlet's father's ghost had never appeared to him, our lives might still be rather normal. I'm sure he would have eventually returned to school with me. Hamlet may still have despised both his mother and his uncle, yet he would be alive to despise them. Isn't that odd to think on? I suppose he and his beloved may have been married at this point. She had confided in me that she suspected he may ask soon. Before everything happened, of course. Or perhaps he may have broken it off with her by this point. He had confided in me - earlier in their relationship - that he didn't suspect it would last.

Either way. If the ghost had never appeared to Hamlet, they'd both still be alive. So would Hamlet's mother and uncle, along with Laertes. If only I could have pulled Hamlet away. Convinced him that speaking with the dead would cause nothing but harm. We should never have told him that we saw his father's ghost the night before. That's where it all began.

But yet… I must admit that I was just as intrigued and fascinated, despite my doubts. I cannot blame Hamlet for speaking to his lost father, for avenging his death. No, I cannot. Instead I find myself… Honestly? I cannot keep the blame off of my own conscience. I feel that if only I had not-

I have to be on my way. Another ten minutes here and Miss Robinson will charge a late fee to my account.


	4. March 12th

**Standing Alone, Drink In Hand**

**-Chapter 3-**

March 12th

Another day. I feel at a loss for words this evening. Nothing necessarily bad happened. Well, that's not true. I'll touch on that later. Yet nothing was necessarily good, either.

I woke up early this morning, memories of dreams thankfully fuzzier than usual. Stumbling through the kitchen for coffee, I burned myself. Looking out of the grimy window that I really ought to have washed a month ago, it was raining again, and the birds were being obnoxiously loud about it.

I suppose I dressed a little more haphazardly than usual, but I wasn't going anywhere important. I had the morning shift at Barnes &amp; Noble and it was, as expected, quite slow. However, it did leave me with an anecdote for this journal today. Perhaps anecdote isn't the right word, for it was terrifyingly embarrassing and will not be funny for maybe another eternity or so.

I noticed a beautiful woman browsing in the cookbook section and she had been wandering through the store for quite some time, so I thought that maybe I might strike up a conversation with her as I unloaded the new shipment of Cake Decoration for Dummies.

And that… Well, I tried. I asked her if she was aware of the cooking class down at the community rec center this weekend, and informed her of the coupon for it that would come with any Paula Deen book from our store. She smiled and said, no, she already knows how to cook, but was looking for a diabetic cookbook for her niece. I felt the shame of all physical bookstore employees as I laughed (charmingly, I thought) and told her that we didn't carry any, but she might find some on, ugh, . She laughed (with hesitation, it seemed. Was I making her uncomfortable?) and shrugged. She moved on towards the science fiction shelves. I spoke up just in time, before it would have seemed creepy to follow her.

"Excuse, me?" I said. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but I have to- Your eyes are so radiant; is it possible you might want to go out with me sometime? Could I get your number?"

"What?"

Had she not understood me? Had I said something wrong? I thought I was very good with the complimenting of her eyes, I thought women liked that. "Do you want to go out? With me?" I reiterated.

"I'm sorry? I can't quite understand you …" she trailed off and I realized with horror that I had forgotten to try to control my stammer. And I had been nervous. A double whammy, so to speak.

The first person I speak to other than Miss Robinson in months, and I can't even string two sentences together. I was humiliated. I could feel the horrible humiliation in my face, my hands, even my feet would most likely have been flushed with red had they been visible.

So I bowed my head and waved it off, trying to indicate to her that whatever I had struggled to say had been of little to no importance. She probably thought I was slow or something. At best, that's what she thought. With my old clothes and roughly shaven face and stuttering speech, I may have come off as a drunk or even a druggie who had just rolled in through the door that morning.

I often find myself wondering how different my life would be if I had a love in my life. Someone who may sympathize with me, take my mind off of … whatever, simple things of that caliber. They wouldn't even have to know about my post-traumatic stress disorder if they didn't want to. I wonder if I should perhaps find a canine companion in lieu of a human one. Dogs are always loyal and never have any reason to leave you.

I remember when Ophelia left Hamlet. He tried his hardest not to show it, but I knew he was heartbroken. He only ever throws himself into an issue when he is avoiding some other aspect of his life. In that case, avenging his father was the avoidance of Ophelia's betrayal. Among other things as well, of course, but one could look into his eyes and see the heartbreak that dulled them.

Perhaps he would not have been so rash in his actions had Ophelia stayed by his side. But, no, of course, she had to follow her father's orders. She may have never said it outright, but we all knew that Polonius was the reason for her malice. That poor girl couldn't blow her nose without asking for his permission. It was completely ridiculous.

I remember when Hamlet told me that he was thinking of proposing to Ophelia. This was just a few months before it all went spiraling down, when Hamlet still held the youthful hope that belonged there in his face. He and Ophelia had been courting for a fair while, and it had been a question of the community of what may happen to her when he rose to power. I, however, knew full well that Hamlet would never leave Ophelia if it could be avoided. What we didn't know was that she would leave him.

I remember that he got angry at me when I questioned why this happened. He shouted at me. "It's her bloodyfather, you dunderhead! He's had her under his stubby little thumb her entire life! He's afraid I won't treat her like- like the Queen she is!" Then he started to cry. I had never seen Hamlet cry before. I had never seen another human being cry with such force, either. He turned to me for an embrace, and I - of course - obliged. The shoulder of my shirt was soaked through. I didn't try to tell him it would be alright, because I understood that, no, it would not.

Hamlet allowed himself five minutes of sorrow. Then he peeled himself away from me and exited my chambers. His shoulders were up around his ears, his red eyes in violent contrast with his pale skin, and his clothes in disarray. Before closing the door behind him, he turned to look at me and said, in a hoarse whisper, "Now I've got a murder to plan. Are you a part of this or not?" For a moment I was frightened that he may have meant Polonius or even Ophelia, but then the supernatural events of the past month came rushing back to me. I nodded fervently after a moment or two, and pushed myself up from the bed.

If only I could have mended the rift between the two. I had done it before. But this time Polonius wouldn't even let me near his daughter. He knew how close Hamlet and I were, and probably recognized my intentions. Ophelia was, for all intents and purposes, locked away from the world. If Hamlet could have had his love back in his arms again, he would not have been so reckless with his own life. Or the lives of others, for that matter.

I most likely would have no need to be keeping this bloody journal if Ophelia had stayed. I would have been Hamlet's best man. I know it.


	5. April 23rd

**Standing Alone, Drink in Hand**

**-Chapter 4-**

April 23rd

Today was, actually, fine. I almost felt good today, and it felt good to feel not bad. That sentence is making me seem like an idiot, but I'm rather far past caring today.

Looking back, I realize how dark most of my entries were. Rather terrifying, the state of mind I was in, wouldn't you say? Seemed as if- Well, I'm not sure how it seemed.

I know Miss Robinson is happy with my progress. I am easier to deal with now I suppose. But I can't blame the poor woman. Reading past entries, I was incredibly difficult. I wouldn't have wanted to deal with me.

However, I am happy to report that last night was my first official dreamless sleep. It was glorious. There have been a few nights where I was almost entirely alone without my thoughts, but a shard of a remembered dream would pierce the darkness, so last night is a fairly big deal, so to speak. I woke up feeling well, which was a new sensation. The last time I slept so well, Hamlet and I were at Wittenberg together. I believe I may have been intoxicated on that particular night.

I am unable to comment on the state of my speech impediment, as I still find myself avoiding any situation that may need the use of voice. I believe that it's simply become a matter of habit now, as I no longer feel the fear well up inside me at the thought of answering a question. I am due to see a man from Craigslist about a sofa tomorrow afternoon, so I'll see how that goes.

To put it succinctly, I feel as if I am in charge of my own life again. I feel as if I am a leader.

Do you know who was a really fabulous leader? Good heavens, I sound like a sixth grader with a crush, don't I? Well, to be honest with the readers who will never set eyes on these words, Hamlet was a fantastic leader. It's truly a shame that his father's power didn't go straight to him, and the entire debacle could have been avoided that way as well.

It's rather tragically ironic, I suppose, that the first time a random passerby could have easily seen his leadership skills was the same day that they would have feared the madman standing before them. When Hamlet brought that play together, that is indeed when I believed that he had truly gone insane. Of course, he had confided in me that it was all an act, but I could confidently claim that my dear friend had buried himself too deeply in the act. He was so consumed with the mission of killing his uncle that he never took a moment to look at himself and see the swirling insanity in his eyes.

This moment in my memory is very conflicting for me. For I saw all of that, and was repulsed, but I also saw how strong he was. He had set a plan, a good one at that, and followed through. He directed all of those free-spirited players, not an easy feat, to expose murderous madness that was swirling through his own uncle. I had stumbled upon him the week before, tucked away in a niche of the grand hallway, with an old school book clutched in his hands. He was pouring over it with great fervor, didn't even notice as I walked by, and I realized that he had gotten ahold of my Psychology textbook and was practically memorizing the signs a guilty individual will show. He was dedicated.

I know of one other person who felt the same fear that I did at the insanity he displayed. Poor Ophelia. Hamlet was really scaring her, perhaps more than he meant to. The lewd manner in which he conducted himself… Throwing himself on her lap, speaking loudly of inappropriate matters… She was incredibly embarrassed, anyone could tell. She was also most likely afraid that her father may see them and assume that Ophelia had given in to Hamlet's wishes. Of course, seeing as Polonius, more than any other, thought Hamlet to be truly mad, there's no possibility that he may have blamed Ophelia. However, I do believe that if Hamlet had seen himself through another's eyes… My eyes, in particular, since I knew him so well… If he had seen himself, Hamlet would have also been quite worried about his mind truly unraveling. That's not to say that he ever lost his wits. Oh, no, Hamlet was always very aware of the situation. No, I mean only that it was horrifying to see how quickly he dropped his morals. He was raised from birth to be the finest of gentlemen, after all. And I do indeed believe that he loved Ophelia, despite what others may have said, or what he told Ophelia in anger, so it was shocking to see him treat her in such a way, angry or not.

That was the day Hamlet died. Not from a poisoned fencing foil but, rather, it was the dimming of his soul. I saw the genuine light in his eyes fade that day, and an unidentifiable darkness replaced it. I'm not sure I could put a name to it, but that was the day Hamlet died. That was when things truly went past the point of no return, and we lost him.

I wonder what he might think of me if he knew me now. Would we have gone back to Wittenberg together? Would I have been best man at his wedding? Perhaps I could have been "Uncle Horatio" at this point. What if I-

No. I promised myself a long time ago that one day I'd stop all this. Hamlet is gone, along with Ophelia, Polonius, Gertrude, and that scum Claudius. But I am here.

I am here.

I am getting better. My life is, I know it. I think Miss Robinson knows it as well.

I will get through things. That's not terribly eloquent, is it? But I know what Hamlet would tell me. He'd say, probably with a hilariously over pronounced accent of some sort, "Oh, my dear chap, moping is no way to live!" Then he'd drop the accent and maybe say, "Oh, by the way, did you finish that assignment from Statistics? I, ummm…" smiling sheepishly, I'm sure.


End file.
